


The Language of Flowers

by superagentwolf



Series: With Religious Fervor [6]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Gen, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post-Canon, Post-Grindelwald, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-02
Updated: 2016-12-01
Packaged: 2018-09-03 17:30:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8722654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superagentwolf/pseuds/superagentwolf
Summary: Graves isn't quite the same after. Neither is Credence.





	1. Chapter 1

Three nights after waking up in a tiny bed in a tiny ward in a tiny hospital, Graves wakes up again. This time, it isn’t as pleasant.

He reels into consciousness, gasping, pulled from a sleep like death by clawing fingers. The ragged edges of a half-roar, half-scream, linger on his lips. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath, heart pounding traitorously as he attempts to slow it.

His gaze swings around the room and he finds it empty.

_Empty._

For a moment- just a moment- upon waking, he thinks that he is back in the trunk, Grindelwald playing a sick joke by offering him a bed before it dissolves in wisps of magic.

Nothing happens.

His eyes land on the chair in the corner. _Credence_.

His presence is no longer there but the chair seems to hold the remnants of the young man, something dark and sad resting in the space. Graves feels his hand moving towards it so he stops, willing himself not to wonder whether it is still warm.

Credence has been gone for three nights.

They had talked. Graves had insisted that Credence go. He had allowed Newt to keep an eye on the boy after meeting the man, sure that if Picquery and Tina trusted Scamander, Graves could trust him with Credence. Credence had been only a little reticent, wanting to stay with Graves.

_You’re still hurt._

_So are you,_ Graves had replied, and Credence had backed away slowly, eyes never leaving the man as he left.

His eyes, so old in a young face.

Graves sighs, looking up at the ceiling as he lies on his back, and he wonders what will become of him.

* * *

“They’re safe. See?” Newt asks, gentle, eyes bright.

Credence glances at the man- _he looks as young as me_ \- and stretches a hand out.

The bowtruckles approach his hand slowly and Credence glances at Pickett, safe in Scamander’s pocket.

He wills himself not to shrink when he feels their tiny limbs on his fingers.

He almost smiles.

“They like you,” Newt says, smiling, eyes sliding a little left of Credence’s face.

Credence has learned that it is another thing that makes him _Newt_. He is sure around his beasts- not quite confident, maybe, but secure. He is different inside his suitcase.

Credence thinks he’s different inside the suitcase, too.

“They’re nice,” Credence allows, watching.

He feels, in the suitcase, as if the world is protected from him. As if he’s enclosed, hidden away, encapsulated. He thinks that these beasts do not know what he is- they do not know his magic. They approach him, only wanting food or attention, and he finds security in their base needs.

“Dinner!” Tina calls from the entrance, peering around the doorway to find the men.

Newt looks back and in that moment Credence sees him, naked, love transforming his features. His eyes are softer somehow, absolutely direct as they focus on Tina. The curve of his shoulders drops, a tiny knot of tension dissolving.

Credence wants to hold that love, clear and bright and strong, and know what it’s like.

Instead, he follows Newt, pretending he doesn’t notice when Tina reaches to pat Credence and withdraws her hand before she touches him.

* * *

 

“What happened?” Tina asks, breathless.

Credence hangs by Newt, wanting to go inside, hesitant. He _could_ go, if he wanted. He could move by everyone, ignore the retinue of Aurors and staff milling about the room. Instead he waits, wanting but cautious. He wants these people to trust him, just a little. Help him.

“We’re not sure,” Picquery replies, disappointment and worry heavy in her words.

Credence hates her for the disappointment.

_It wasn’t his fault_.

He wonders if this is what Graves felt like, when Credence lost control.

“Do you know where he’s gone?”

“No,” Picquery replies, gaze sliding towards Credence.

“You’re sure?” Newt asks, noticing- _always noticing_ \- the change. “No idea?”

“…he has a place of residence,” Picquery submits, appraising.

Her eyes are evaluating. _Wondering about Newt. Since he’s supporting me._

“Let’s go,” Tina immediately says, turning.

“He’s not there,” Picquery calls as the woman begins to walk away.

“He wouldn’t go there,” Credence says quietly, turning a little towards Newt, involuntarily making the exchange secret.

It isn’t a secret, but he won’t directly speak to Picquery.

“Where _would_ he go?” Newt asks him, patient.

“Somewhere green,” Credence says and he’s not sure how he knows but it’s true even as he says it.

_Pine, warmth, spice._

It is _Graves_.

* * *

He lets Newt and Tina examine the park. They ask him _can you do it, are you all right,_ and he nods and tries to look resolute. So they leave him and he moves, unthinking, pressing his thumb to a coin in his pocket.

It’s a call. He can almost imagine a pulse, leaving his body, rippling forth.

There is an answering ripple.

_Graves_.

He is led to a small corner of the city, near the outskirts. There are shops, nearly empty, some closed. At the end of the lane is a closed tea shop. He walks slowly, tilting his head to try and see around the edges of the brick. There is a rusted gate, some kind of overgrown plant twisting around the metal.

He carefully moves the gate open, surprised when it makes no noise. The stones underfoot are covered in grass like brushstrokes, green and feathery. He can see untended rosebushes and flowers sprouting under trees.

It is magical, he thinks, but it is _real_.

“Graves,” he says softly, not wanting to approach unannounced.

The man sits at a table, marble with bright colored glass. Credence thinks there are flowers on it- purple.

“Hydrangea,” the man murmurs, turning his head slightly. “The flowers.”

“I didn’t know a place like this existed in the city,” Credence admits, walking on soft feet to the other chair pulled up to the table.

Graves is wearing a suit, Credence notices- a dark navy-purple one. It is clean-looking. There are no visible injuries on the man but Credence can see the way Graves holds his hand carefully, almost as if they are still broken.

_In his mind, they are_.

“You called,” Graves says. It’s more of a question than a statement.

“What happened?”

He’s not used to being the confidante. He hopes he’ll do well.

“…a bad dream,” Graves sighs, turning.

Credence realizes there’s a teacup on the table. Graves moves his hand and Credence watches shattered pieces float through the air, slowly, as if waking. Something grates below his foot and he looks, moving his shoe aside to watch the last piece join its brethren.

The broken cup assembles under Graves’ shaking hand and the man twists his fingers softly, allowing it to fill before it sets itself down before Credence. When he finishes he looks at his hand, still questioning, as if he does not believe it should be able to control magic.

“…it’s good,” Credence murmurs after he takes a sip.

_Flowery._

He’s never known what flower taste like. Tea.

“She never gave you tea,” Graves says.

“No.”

Graves sinks against the back of his chair, exhaling through his nose, eyes fixed on the sky. As if he’s looking for answers. Waiting for something.

“Why are you here?” Credence asks.

“…it’s quiet. Safe,” Graves mutters, reaching for his cup. Credence watches tendrils of steam rise. “Away.”

“You’re going back,” Credence realizes, something sinking inside of him.

The tea is suddenly bitter on his tongue.

“I have a job,” Graves reminds Credence. His tired eyes turn to him, finally.

Credence holds the man’s gaze, certain. He thinks maybe Graves can tell what he’s saying.

_I am not leaving you. We promised. **You** promised._

_Together._

“They’re looking for you,” Credence finally says, turning his head towards the gate.

There are lips pressed to his forehead.

His mouth parts in a soundless gasp and his eyes are closed, involuntary, rejecting the reality because it _can’t_ be true. His hand stumbles against his teacup but he ignores the way it spills, hot liquid running over his fingers.

When his eyes flutter open he watches Graves back away, close but not so close. Not close enough. The man’s hand is still on his cheek, still rough, still trembling ever so slightly.

“Thank you,” Graves says.

Credence moves, magnetized, attracted, and pulls the man down with arms clasped around his shoulders. He inhales, enjoying the familiar cologne and the heady scent of flowers clinging to Graves’ suit. He wonders distantly how long the man was sitting in the garden.

Their embrace hums the same way he’d felt Graves’ presence hum, rippling outwards, bouncing against other things, forever transferring itself forward.

When they emerge, Credence thinks that maybe their scars are starting to fade away like the first ripples in a pond.

_Not quite gone. But different._

* * *

“I’d like to stay with you,” Credence manages.

Graves watches the quiet surety dissipate a little and he wishes it didn’t have to be this way. He wishes Credence wouldn’t be afraid of rejection.

Tina turns to look at the boy, hesitant, lips parted as if she wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

“You are welcome to,” Graves replies, feeling his own brow furrow under its familiar tension.

“Are you sure?” Tina asks him.

It’s not meant to be insulting or reprimanding. Graves pauses, considering. Considering what might happen.

“I’m sure.”

* * *

Graves watches Credence stand by the door as if he’s ready to run and he can’t help the small flame in his chest.

“Come in,” he offers, extending a hand.

His palm is turned sideways. Never up. Up means _want_. It means _give_.

Credence hesitates but he steps forward, allowing the momentary touch when Graves presses his elbow gently, encouraging.

Graves thinks, mortified, that it is somehow _cute_ when Credence explores the apartment, peering around doorways before placing his body entirely within them.

_He’s like a puppy_.

Credence glances back, brow furrowed in confusion, and Graves has to stifle the jump in his heartbeat.

“…there’s only one room,” Credence manages, sounding for all the world like the words are being pulled from his mouth like teeth.

“I live alone,” Graves replies, as if he is reminding, hoping that being casual will offer comfort.

Credence blinks, looks to the bedroom, swallows. He looks as if he’s trying to figure out what to say. What to do.

“Use the bed,” Graves says, trying to soften the words that sound like a command. “I’ll be up late anyways.”

“…you’re sure?” Credence asks quietly.

Graves nods, passing slowly as he pulls a towel from the closet. He opens the door to the bath, placing the towel on a stand.

“I’ll run a bath.”

* * *

Credence looks down at the water as if it is magic.

To him, it is.

The water is warm, almost hot, and he thinks the tub is bigger than anything he’s ever seen. Graves pauses once he rises, turning off the tap.

“Take your time,” the man says.

Graves’ brow wrinkles- Credence has noticed that, some kind of outward manifestation of the man’s disappointment in himself, as if he’s said something wrong- and then he turns and leaves, shutting the door.

Credence looks around the room, nervous.

He can’t hurry when he undresses It feels _wrong_ to put his dirty suit on the soft carpet but he can’t find anywhere else to put it so he folds it small. Mary Lou had always made them fold their clothes before taking a bath, quick and cold, in a tiny tub that could barely hold them.

_Pleasure is a sin,_ he hears in the back of his mind, but he ignores it with fierce determination.

One foot in the water and he sighs, eyes fluttering in pleasure at the warmth.

He sinks into the tub, exhaling, thinking that his very skeleton is unfurling in the water. He blinks owlishly, nose just above the line, and peers at the small bottles lining the shelf next to him.

He can’t help his curiosity so he reaches, careful, unscrewing the cap on an amber bottle.

_Pine,_ Credence thinks, inhaling deeply, wondering. He can imagine Graves pouring it into the water, steady hands tipping ever so slightly to let the scent drip in.

He is warm and something stirs low in his belly so he stops, flushing and embarrassed, covering the bottle back up.

His hands still smell a little like pine. He raises them in the gold light of the room, watching the way his fingers redden at the edges, relaxing into the water.

Before the water gets cold, he lets himself dip under, feeling weightless, if only for a moment.

* * *

Credence emerges from the bath with cheeks flushed coral-red, hair still dripping. Graves has to stifle his startled laughter when the young man peers around the corner, arms clutching his dirty suit close.

“Here,” Graves offers, unfurling his fingers, watching the suit float into the laundry.

Credence stiffens a fraction, still hidden in the doorway.

“What is it?”

Flushed cheeks turn a shade darker.

“I…I have no…,” Credence starts, furiously trying to finish, and Graves notices.

_Ah._

Credence is still wearing his white shirt, creased at the elbows and waist. He’s not wearing anything else.

Graves clears his throat, looking away.

“There’s something on the bed,” he offers, studiously returning to his book.

Credence hesitates but makes his way to the room, edging along the shadows.

And Graves, being the terrible man that he is, can’t help looking up for a moment to watch the young man in a just-long-enough shirt walk down the hall.

He snaps the book shut.


	2. Just My Soul Responding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are some things that words cannot give voice to.

He wakes late at night- or early in the morning- to hear Credence thrashing in his sleep.

There are words, twisted with pain and fear, and his limbs are pushing into the bed as if he wants it to absorb him, hide him.

“Credence,” he tries, coaxing, keeping his voice quiet so that he doesn’t startle him.

“No-,” the boy gasps, arching, shaking, and Graves feels for him.

He leans down, one arm bracing Credence against the bed gently.

“Credence. Wake up,” he says lowly, mouth a centimeter away from the boy’s ear.

The movement stops and Credence’s eyes fly open, wide, the clinging fear fading with each blink of his eyelids.

“Graves,” he breathes, surprised, apparently realizing where he is. As if he’s forgotten.

“Shh,” Graves murmurs, smoothing dark hair away as he presses a palm to the boy’s forehead.

“I’m- sorry,” Credence apologizes, eyes cast aside in shame. “I didn’t-,”

Graves stops him, fingers moving to gently weigh down his lips. He tries not to be fascinated by the way they feel against his skin, warm and soft with little bumps in dry spots. _I’ll have to get him to drink more water,_ he thinks distantly. Credence has stopped breathing, he can tell, because the air is still around his hand.

“You’re still in pain,” Graves says, voice raspy with sleep. “Let me help you.”

He removes his hand and tries not to think about the way Credence follows it for a second, rising a little.

“…yes.”

Graves moves the twisted covers aside, smoothing them, and Credence moves away, transfixed. He seems to stiffen when Graves joins him.

_None of that._

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Graves tries, praying. _He has no reason to trust me._

Credence pauses, eyes searching. He moves closer, careful, unsure. Graves lets him test the space and then he slowly extends an arm, gently guiding, letting Credence rest against him. He sighs when he feels Credence duck his head, tucking it against Graves’ collarbone, hair silky and cool.

“Good,” Graves murmurs, already drifting into the warmth of the bed. “Good boy.”

* * *

Credence wakes in pieces, legs and arms and sleepy eyes. He feels something warm and salty against his lips so he licks them, dazed and unaware.

There is pine everywhere.

 _Graves,_ he realizes, and then he inhales sharply, eyes focusing on the neck his nose is pressed against.

_His skin._

He stifles the cry in his throat. He thinks he should feel ashamed but the taste is there, fading quickly, and he curses himself for not memorizing every bit of it.

Graves rumbles in his sleep, sighing and shifting, and Credence becomes aware of his body.

Legs tangled with his. An arm around his waist, holding him close. A slowly rising chest moving against his own.

He can feel Graves’ heartbeat, steady and resounding, through their shirts.

“…you’re awake,” the man murmurs, voice rough and deep.

Credence blinks, trying to ignore the way his pulse jumps.

“I’m-,”

“-not sorry,” Graves finishes, sighing out through his nose, and then his arm pulls Credence closer. “I’m not sorry.”

Credence opens his mouth, stutters a sound, but he can’t speak because he’s surrounded by _Graves_ , by his bed and scent and warm body.

“…would you rather I moved?”

It’s a genuine question. Graves is asking because he cares. He cares about Credence and his boundaries and he is _asking_.

“No,” Credence says immediately, letting himself relax, curiously tilting his face so that he can feel more of the man’s skin on his face.

Graves hums in response and Credence feels his lips twitching, fighting a smile.

“Sleep,” Graves murmurs, and Credence nods, sinking back into the warmth of the bed and his body.

* * *

Credence wakes alone, missing the warmth, and he eases out of bed.

Graves’ pants are big on him but he enjoys the extra room and the smell of fresh detergent. He feels lazy- he’s never felt lazy before and he knows it’s bad but it’s _nice_.

He walks into the kitchen and freezes

Graves is standing shirtless by the window, back to Credence, an arm stretched above his head to pull laundry off a line. Credence can see the line of his back, small hills and curves from the muscles near his shoulders. His hair is messy with sleep, black strands sticking out in different directions.

“Ah-,” the sound escapes him and Graves turns, arm dropping.

* * *

 

Credence’s eyes are still fixed midway up his body before they flick up, torn away.

He looks _guilty._

 _Fuck,_ Graves thinks. He can feel his heart pound like a knife, cutting through his chest.

“Credence,” he manages, cursing his own traitorous voice. He sounds hoarse to his own ears.

“I…,” the boy tries, but he seems unfocused, confused.

“It’s all right,” Credence reassures, hesitating, swaying forward with indecision.

_Do I go to him? Will he be all right?_

“I sh-,” Credence begins, eyes narrowing as if he’s trying to convince himself.

“Shouldn’t?”

The boy’s voice leaves him in a ragged, gasping, half-laugh. It’s not humorous at all.

“It’s not- it’s not…,”

“Not right,” Graves finishes, understanding. He moves closer, careful. “She said that about magic, too, didn’t she?”

“But this is-,”

“It’s not different,” Graves says softly, watching as Credence struggles, teary-eyed. “It’s you.”

“But I’m…I’m…wrong,” Credence tries, shaking his head.

 _Dear heart._ He thinks there is no other way so he reaches, carefully, placing his shaking hands on Credence’s face.

“You are not wrong, Credence. You are beautiful,” Graves whispers, hoping he sounds as sure as he feels.

Credence sobs and Graves pulls him close, heart breaking a little. He wants to teach him, wants to kiss him, make him better, but he knows better.

 _Love and pain,_ he thinks. _Love and pain._

Because they’re mixed for Credence- and maybe for Graves, too. They’re a little too intertwined, a little too dangerous for him to feel safe taking this any further.

So instead he waits, careful, patient, because Credence is worth waiting for. Because Graves is worth waiting for.

 _They_ are worth waiting for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops. I...I didn't mean to. I just meant to write the next story ahead of time. Instead I did this.

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me why I ended there. Even I don't know.  
> Pro tip: look up hydrangeas.  
> Also, I can SO see Credence being very scent-oriented. You gotta believe he doesn't get around cologne or non-smog smell at all. The kinks these two would have are killing me. Suits, touch, smell...eesh. I'll probably die when I write the thing you're all waiting for.  
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
